


Part 4: Love the Fall

by oliveordie



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wrestling, Car Sex, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, POV Second Person, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliveordie/pseuds/oliveordie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen grabs at your moving wrists and pulls you into him. You have just enough time to let out a startled gasp before his lips are on yours. He releases your arms to cup your face in his hands. His kiss is rough. Instead of shoving him away you kiss him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part 4: Love the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> So, this happened. I have no idea why my headcanon for Sheamus is so jerky. I do plan on having him redeem himself in the very near future. I’m just going to leave this here and run away.
> 
> This is a continuation of previous works.

A string of protesters waive their signs at you from across the street. You had waived at them and their glittery ‘Jesus Loves Children’ signs as you entered the building and now you waive at them as you leave. You were in the nondescript Planned Parenthood building for a long time, so you assume they are thinking the worst of you. You swallow your judgment of the group and wind around other slow-moving people on the sidewalk.

The prognosis had been good, which you had expected. There were no overt signs that you were suffering from an STD, but you still had to be sure given your recent choice of extra curricular activities. On top of that, you had to endure another birth control shot. You wince at the memory of the needle sticking your arm. Thank goodness it’s only once every twelve weeks.

Some of the tests are going to take some time to come back, the clinic doctor told you. She took note of the contact information you provided in your paperwork. “You live a mobile lifestyle?”

“You could say that. I’ve an aversion to settling down,” you replied. It’s not entirely true, but it’s a lie you’re willing to tell yourself. And it was nicer than saying that you lived out of your Subaru.

She was sure to load you up with condoms, dental dams, and little sample packets of lubrication. “Be safe,” she had said as you left the exam room clutching the bulging white bag. You resist the urge to dig through it on the street. You thought you saw some ribbed condoms in there. You try to remove temptation by shoving the bag in your satchel.

It is a short walk to your car. The day is pleasant and breezy. Your trip to Planned Parenthood had taken you to the other side of the city. When you’re settled in your vehicle, you punch a few words into your GPS. It spits out a few locations for you to choose from, and you select the arena for tonight’s show. You start following the soothing, accented voice of your guidance system. You weren’t scheduled to be ringside but you were still expected to show up.

Today, traffic is light. But then again, it is still early. A strip mall appears on your right. There is a Dunkin Donuts nestled in with the other stores. The pink, white and orange sign draws your attention immediately. The poking and prodding you underwent inspires a need for hot chocolate and Boston cream donuts… and maybe a glaze stick… and one of the donuts with maple frosting.

By the time you put your car in park, you had already picked out a dozen donuts. As you cross the parking lot you take notice of the three tour buses at the end of the lot. Their presence didn’t click for you until you throw open the glass door to Dunkins and walk right into John.

“Whoa there,” he says, and spins around to look at you. “Oh hey! You in a hurry?” he asks you.

“Uh, yes,” you stammer dumbly. You got that nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach. John and Stephen have been traveling together recently. A quick scan of the room confirms your anxious suspicions – Stephen is queued up at the counter, typing into his iPhone. He looks too good to be true wearing a zip-up fleece jacket with upturned collar, a pair of dark jeans with white cross patterns embroidered on the back pockets, backwards blue ball cap, and his glasses.

You squeak involuntarily. John reads your reaction like he is reading the Sport’s Illustrated swimsuit issue – with entirely too much interest. “You should talk to him,” he says.

You aren’t dressed for this. Your hair is pulled back into a messy bun. Your t-shirt is the cleanest one you could find in the dirty laundry bag at the back of your car. Your jeans are too long, too frayed at the bottom, and too full of unfashionable holes in the thighs. “Why should I do that?” you ask, not biting back the annoyance in your voice.

“Because you can’t avoid him forever,” John says. “Besides that, he likes you.”

That’s the second time you’ve heard that. “He does a good job of showing it.”

“Well, yeah. He’s Irish.”

You contemplate turning on your heel and foregoing the sweet satisfaction donuts would bring you when Stephen glances up from his phone and in your direction. He holds your gaze for a moment, face unreadable, before stepping ahead in line.

John places his hand at the small of your back and pushes you in the direction of the counter. You scowl at him over your shoulder and reluctantly join the people waiting to be served. Stephen is three people ahead of you. The two workers are doing a good job of keeping the line moving at a steady pace. Stephen orders when it’s his turn. You could just hear him ask for black tea with lemon and a large coffee.

He receives and pays for his order, but before leaving, he leans forward to say something you can’t hear to the young guy serving him. After the exchange, you watch Stephen walk to John. They leave together a moment later.

You feel both relieved and unsettled by not speaking with him. You curse John Cena. Stephen sure likes you, you think. Men are still idiots, you remind yourself.

Time crawls along as you wait to be served. Something had happened between the time Stephen was in line and the time that he was served because now you can’t be waited on fast enough. You almost sigh out of relief when it’s your turn to place your order.

“What can I get you?” the young guy behind the counter asks. His nametag says his name is Joe.

“Well, aptly-named-Joe, I need a dozen donuts and a very large hot chocolate. With raspberry flavoring. And whipped cream.” You’re feeling cranky. Joe puts on a smile and jumps at your wishes. You pick out the donuts quickly. You plan on devouring as many as you can without getting sick as soon as you’re seated behind the steering wheel of your Subaru. Joe gives you the box and the Styrofoam cup.

“You’re all set,” he says with too much cheer.

“How much?” you say.

“Your order was paid for by the big guy with the accent,” he explains.

“Wait, all of it?”

Joe nods. “Yes!”

You chew on your lip and step aside. Joe addresses the customer waiting behind you. You take the box and the cocoa, grab a few napkins from the dispenser by the door, and walk back to your car. Any plans you had to explore the strip mall have been squelched by Stephen’s kind act.

“Jerk,” you say to yourself, thinking only of Stephen. You find yourself looking to where the tour buses were parked. One is missing.

You are about to dwell on emotions you can’t name when you become aware of the person leaning against your car. Stephen is waiting for you. He’s holding his tea close to his chest. There is a slight breeze. It catches the tea tag dangling from the cup rim and sends it fluttering over his long pale fingers.

He has seen you approaching and is gazing at you. He comments on the box you are holding.

“Good thing I left a twenty,” he says. It is a statement with no intent behind it.

You choose not to address his kind gesture. “You missed your ride, I see,” you say, not sparing him any gruffness.

“No, I was waiting for you,” he says. That statement has a lot of intent, you decide.

What you want to say is ‘Fuck you, Stephen, and the high horse you rode in on. Find your own way to the arena!’ Instead, you sigh. You fish your keys out of your pocket and unlock the doors. “Get in,” you say, and move to the other side of your Subaru.

He opens the passenger door and struggles with the adjusting the seat before sitting. You wish your car didn’t have such a spacious interior, because the thought of Stephen uncomfortable pleases you.

There are a few beats of silence after you’re both settled in and the doors have been slammed shut. You open the pink-edged white box and pick out the Boston cream.

“I am going to eat this donut,” you say. “I am going to take my time, enjoy every bite, and you are not going to say a word while I do, okay?”

“Understood,” he replies with a nod.

To fill the quiet between bites, you turn your key to wake up the electric system. Without looking, you pick a CD from the black mesh holder on your visor. You pop it in. The CD player whirs to life and GreatBigSea’s General Taylor starts playing over the crackly speakers. You turn up the volume in spite of the sound quality. You should make a mental note to have the speakers looked at, but you’re consumed with devouring your donut before the conversation you’re about to have with Stephen plays out.

You take more time than needed to eat that donut. Every bite you take is punctuated with a long sip of your raspberry cocoa. The beverage is too hot for your liking, but you weather the pain to punish him. Stephen looks at you every now and then, as if to make sure you’re still there. General Taylor fades into Captain Tractor’s Someday.

The song plays for a few minutes. The refrain ‘and if you love me, I will be all right, and if you love me, I could live through another night’ plays before you realize how fitting the song is to the situation. You eject the CD. Bad timing, you inwardly groan.

“We are going to pretend that didn’t just happen,” you say.

“Is there anything else we are going to pretend didn’t happen?” he asks you. Stephen is leaning on the part of the seat that folds down between the driver and passenger sides. He’s invading your personal space. You want to be annoyed with him, but he’s close enough for you to smell his cologne. He smells good. How can you be angry at him when he smells like that? You try and remind yourself of the argument where he inferred you were a slut.

‘That’s my armrest!’ you want to snap at him, but instead you say: “I regret nothing I have done.” And you mean it, too. You don’t regret sleeping with him, you don’t regret sleeping with Ryan, and you certainly don’t regret the cleaning closest rendezvous with Colby. But you probably shouldn’t mention that last tryst to Stephen. “Is there something you want to say to me? Because if there is, you should come out and say it.”

“I’m sorry for the Barbie thing,” he says. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “It was wrong of me. I don’t know why I said it.” He places his tea in the cup holder on the center floor console. He clears his throat. “Uh, actually I do know why I said it, but that doesn’t excuse me for being an arse. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sorry for slapping you,” you say quickly. “You deserved that.”

He nodded in agreement. “You’re right, I did.”

“And I want you to apologize for telling people I’m easy,” you snap.

Stephen looks surprised. “When did I do that?” he asks.

“Matt came over and made a comment to Ryan. He called me a ‘hoski.’”

“I didn’t know he did that,” Stephen says. He sounds surprised, but not overly so.

You laugh bitterly. “You were the only person I’d slept with in months, and at that point, the only person in the company that I’d fucked. So why else would he say that about me, unless you had given him that impression?”

“I had mentioned we were together,” Stephen says quietly. 

You hold up a hand to him to stop further discourse. You set your cocoa in the cup holder next to the tea and hand Stephen the box of donuts from your lap. “Put that in the backseat,” you bark. He does as he is told. “Buckle up,” you say. He obediently follows that order. You buckle up too, and turn the engine over. The sooner you drop Stephen off at the arena, the sooner you can move on from this conversation.

Before driving off, you poke at the LED screen of your GPS. It plots out the shortest route to where you’re going.

Stephen reacts to your angry silence. “We are going to finish this,” Stephen says. By his tone, any guilty sorrow he is feeling is dissipating and annoyance is edging into his voice.

You give him your best mad face. “You go right ahead, Stephen. Keep digging that hole you’re standing in. I’ll throw a blanket down when you’re done.”

“I am not responsible for how other people interpret what I say,” he says, his temper flaring. “What I had said was that after we had met in the bar, I spent the night with you. Matt reached his own conclusions from that. Anything that happened after is all on you!”

“Your insinuation that I was a slut before you yelled at me and kissed me at the house show, that’s my fault too, right?”

The paper thin barrier to Stephen’s composure tears away. “If you didn’t fuck Ryan, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

You jump at his anger but it only serves to fuel your own. “No, if I didn’t fuck Ryan, you would probably still be ignoring me. And since we’re on this train, if I didn’t fuck you, I wouldn’t be in this mess!”

The GPS is telling you to turn and as you miss each direction it gives, it calls out ‘Recalculating!” This car ride is no longer about getting you both to work. In a moment of frustration, you rip the power cable out of the unit and throw the black cord behind you to the back seat.

“This is a mess, isn’t it?” Stephen says. You are approaching a busy street in the urban center of the city.

You see a sign for paid parking and turn off the street, following the direction at which the sign was pointing.

And when he notices you pull in down the ramp to the parking structure, he mumbles: “Where the fuck are we going?”

“Just be quiet,” you hiss as you roll to a stop by the parking attendant’s booth. You hit the button to lower the electric window. The old man in the brightly-lit booth hands you a ticket and waives you through, advising you that the lowest levels are available for long term parking. The gate lifts and you drive through. Stephen isn’t saying anything, but you can see him clench and unclench his fists. The man is seething.

You slowly move through level after level until you settle on a fairly vacant, dimly-lit stretch of underground parking lot. You park behind a thick column of concrete. There are a few cars scattered on the level you chose. None of them are close to your spot. If Stephen wasn’t in the car with you, you would never dream of parking in that dark place alone.

You turn off the Forester, unbuckle your seatbelt, and shift to face Stephen. “This is all about you,” you say evenly. The car is parked away from any sources of light, but because you’re close, you can still see his facial expressions clearly in whatever light that reaches your car.

“How do you figure that?”

You point at him: “I was fine with the one night stand and even though I didn’t like it, I could live with the slut-shaming thing. It was just sex, okay, no big deal. But you have developed this bizarre reaction to me doing what I want to do, and because I’m not actively engaging in sexual behaviors with you, you feel like it’s an excuse to treat me like shit. And then you have the nerve to act like you still want me.” He had taken off his glasses at some point and you scold yourself for not noticing. You continue: “So what is it? You can’t make me yours just because you don’t want others to have me and then not have me yourself. I am not property! I say this is all about you because if you had any feelings for me, you wouldn’t make me feel like a shit because I’m with someone who isn’t you. You’d actually be with me.”

“So you’re with Reeves?” he asks, blue eyes narrowing.

“I am not with Ryan! I was with Ryan, once, because I wanted to get laid and he was interested. There is nothing wrong with that. But because it wasn’t you, it’s a big deal. Do you realize how fucked up that is? You ignored me and avoided me and treated me like I wasn’t even there. You gossiped about fucking me to your friends. You wouldn’t be in my car if you didn’t know I was with Ryan!”

“You are daft, girl,” he groans. He rubs the back of his hand across his brow. “And I did not gossip. I was drunk, you little idiot, that’s how they got the story out of me in the first place.”

You scoff. “How Irish of you. You being an asshole does not make me ‘daft’”

“I am trying to fix what went wrong here…” he begins.

“You’re going a good job so far, A+ effort,” you interrupt. You are being purposefully bitchy, hoping he doesn’t see how much this conversation is hurting you. You aren’t getting out of this car feeling like any less of a whore, so why should he get out feeling anything other than an asshole.

“Would you let me fucking finish?” he yells at you again.

You’re no longer looking at him. You trace the leather of the steering wheel with a finger. “They both said you liked me,” you mutter. And then you laugh. There is no humor in the noise that chokes out of you.

This stops the tirade Stephen was preparing to expose you to. “Well, I do,” he says, sounding every bit as stubborn as you feel. He doesn’t ask who you were talking about, but that doesn’t really matter.

“You made polite, awkward conversation with me the morning after you woke up in my bed and left. No kiss, no asking me for my number. All you said was to bring you the bill for the Nikons. And then you avoided me for weeks.”

“And then you slept with Ryan,” he added.

“Can you blame me for that? He was interested in me. At that point you treated me like I was just a random hook up to you.” You’re flailing your hands as you speak, getting more upset after each word. “I don’t know why we keep having this conversation when I keep saying the same thing over and over. In the end, I guess I’m just a whore, and…”

Stephen grabs at your moving wrists and pulls you into him. You have just enough time to let out a startled gasp before his lips are on yours. He releases your arms to cup your face in his hands. His kiss is rough. Instead of shoving him away you kiss him back.

His hands grip your hair. You manage to wrestle the armrest back into the seat without breaking the kiss. There is nothing between you now except the clothes you are wearing. You are fully aware that he’s taking you to the place he wants to be, but you want to feel him inside you so you let him kiss you, you let his hands roam from your hair to under the fabric of your t-shirt, and you let him put your hand between his legs.

You brush over the bulge in his jeans. He mutters something in Gaelic.

“Backseat,” you say. He kisses you one last time before sliding out of the car. You readjust his seat so it’s as far forward as it will go. You’re much shorter than he is, so you don’t adjust your side. “Watch out for the donuts!” you squeak as he gets into the back.

You scramble to join him. The donuts have been safely placed in the cargo space at the back of the car.

“Where were we?” he asks when you’re next to him. He takes your hand in his kisses the pads of your fingers.

“Are you asking me where we were in our conversation or where we were before you have me in my car?”

The conversation is over for now. Stephen silences you again with a kiss. He moves quickly, unbuttoning his pants and sliding them down to his knees. Your hand is in his again and he closes your fist around the base of his erection. Without being prompted, you lick the palm of your free hand to your fingertips and then grasp his member. You gently pull your hand up the length of his shaft. Stephen shudders while you do.

“I do have lube,” you say to him.

“Where?” he asks quickly.

Your satchel with the white bag from Planned Parenthood is on the floor at your feet. You feel around in the dark until you find a capsule of lubrication. You hold it up for Stephen’s inspection. It passes his scrutiny because he takes it from you and tears the tapered top of the package open with his teeth. He drizzles a little on your open palm.

“Slow and steady,” he says. His voice is sounding husky and even though he’s not touching you, his reaction to what little you’ve done is starting to turn you on. 

You use your other hand to grasp him at the base again and you clasp him at the head and slowly move your lubricated hand down. Stephen tilts his head back, exposing his neck to you. You bite your bottom lip, but you wished you were biting him. He writhes under your touch. You fight the urge to ask him if you’re doing okay, but you know you are because his hand is on your thigh and he’s digging his nails into the denim.

Stephen gasps as you work up and down. You vary your speed at times, watching him for a reaction to what he likes. You try to keep an eye out the windows for anyone passing by, but it’s hard to tear your eyes away from him. Luckily, you had parked near an empty corner of the level and the windows had fogged over in minutes. No one was going to see what you were doing to him in the dark. Twice, he stops you to apply more lubrication. When your wrist starts to hurt he stops you with a pale hand to your forearm.

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to finish,” he says. His broad chest is heaving. “Take off your pants.”

You wipe you hand on the side of your jeans before taking them off. Your head is swimming and your heart feels like it’s fluttering. Nervousness plays at your emotions, warping what should be a sexy moment into one filled with worry.

Stephen notices your hesitation. “What’s wrong?”

Your pants join your purse on the floor of your car. “We aren’t done talking about what happened,” you say to him. “This doesn’t wipe the slate clean.”

“You’re right. But I want you know, and I’m willing to bet I’m going to want you again when you yell at me for being an arse,” he replies. His frankness makes you shiver. Part of you doesn’t want him like this. But you can’t deny that you want him all the same.

 

You relieve yourself of your pants and briefs without making eye contact. You pick a condom at random from the bag and hand it to him. He obliges you without a word. You find the half-empty capsule of lube on the seat next to him and apply it liberally between you legs right where it counts because you already know this is going to be fast and dirty.

 

“How do you want me?” you ask.

 

He thinks about this for a moment. “Facing forward.” You try to ignore the lack of intimacy and focus on the logistics of fucking in a car.

Stephen helps position you. You’re hovering over him, partially leaning over the front seat, hands gripping the driver and passenger headrests. He guides himself into you, pulling you down to his lap. The lubrication helps his journey and you bite back a thankful murmur for it. You let out a strangled cry and he inhales sharply when you’ve taken all of him.

Stephen pushes you away and pulls you back down to meet his hips again. You say his name, but he doesn’t seem hear you. The motion is repeated. You feel a little breathless when he has you in his lap again.

“Was he good?” Stephen whispers. He holds you there, waiting for your response. When he doesn’t receive one, he pushes and pulls you down again, this time using your hair to help pull you back into him.

“I asked you, was he good?” he says, keeping his voice quiet. Your clothed back is touching his front and he’s holding you by your hair. You respond by rotating your hips and giving him a small laugh. This is not what he wants to hear. His accent is thick as he utters a string of words you don’t understand. He tries to punish you by taking you fast and hard, but it only serve to bring you closer to climax.

The Subaru rocks on its wheels and you’re both making enough noise to call attention to the bouncing vehicle. But no one wanders by and you’re left to enjoy Stephen’s frustrated lust. You work well together but there is no question of who is calling the shots. Anticipation builds up in both of you.

He senses you’re about to orgasm and he stops your body, holding you close to him again. “Was he good?” he demands, no longer whispering. He’s keeping you from coming. His domination of the situation sparks a vindictive need to lash out and hurt him. You instinctively know he’s not going to let you have your way until he gets an answer. So you give him one.

“He was better than Colby."

Stephen makes a noise that sends a chill down your spine. He takes hold of your thighs and thrusts into you a few times, bringing you to climax. When you’re done whimpering, he repositions you so he’s no longer between you legs. It takes a moment for you to register that he has redressed. Without a word, he climbs out of the backseat. You feel bad for acting out in the moment. He’ll make you pay for that later, you think. But for now, you have donuts.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd for content, not for typos, grammar, or spelling errors. Any of those are mine and mine alone.
> 
> Original posting here - http://anonno1.tumblr.com/post/46687519940/love-the-fall


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